


The Ultimate Reward

by Scrawlers



Series: Paradigm Shift [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Reality, Gen, Keith and Lotor haven't kissed yet - that's three years off yet, The Keith/Lotor is very light and bg and is mostly in one exchange, but the flirting is there so I felt it prudent to tag it so people would know, plus small things, prequel fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 02:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14661915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: Zethrid has been a bounty hunter for four years, and in that time she has seen her fair share of exciting things. But nothing she has ever seen before can compare to the thrill of running into the exiled prince and his little band of fugitives in the lobby of a fast-food restaurant, or the bounty she'll get when she turns them all in.





	The Ultimate Reward

**Author's Note:**

> This, as the tags indicate, is a prequel to my Paradigm Shift AU series. As such, it’s not necessary to have read the others before reading this one; all you need to know is that this takes place in an alternate reality from canon, and the events that transpire here not only have the backdrop of a canon divergence that caused this alternate reality in the first place, but also set up for a future that is much different from the one we know from the canon show.
> 
> With that said, while I’m aware that Lauren Montgomery and Joaquim Dos Santos have said that Lotor is over 10,000 years old in canon (as opposed to the theories many of us had of him being in cryostasis similar to Allura given his appearance, attitude, and behavior), I planned this alternate reality pretty in-depth before that information came to light, and changing things now to accommodate that information throws too many things off-kilter. As such, while I recognize that Lauren and Joaquim have made a decision regarding Lotor’s age, I’ve elected to ignore it, at least with regards to this series.
> 
> That being the case, in this particular fic, Lotor is around sixteen, as are Keith and Acxa. Ezor is around fifteen, and Zethrid is around seventeen. In other words, this fic takes place about three years prior to “Revolutionary”, which was the first fic I published for this series.
> 
> And as a final reminder, a tick is a little longer than a second; a dobosh is a minute; a varga is an hour; a quintant is a day; a movement is a week; a phoeb is a month; and a decaphoeb is a year.

Five phoebs. It had been five phoebs since she’d found her last target, and she had only thirty-two GAC left to her name.

Zethrid shifted her fighter into neutral so it would idle through space, and let her head fall back against the headrest of her seat.

Thirty-two GAC. It wasn’t . . . horrible. She’d had less. She’d had a lot less, actually, at multiple points in her life. There were plenty of times when she was flat broke, when she had  _nothing_ except whatever she could shake out of the pockets of whatever fool she’d managed to yank off the street. This wasn’t  _that_ bad. At least with this she could still afford to eat for at least a movement, if she played her cards right and ate at the cheapest places. Plus, she still had some snacks stuffed under the seats of her fighter. That would tide her over, too.  _And_ her fighter still had a half-tank of fuel, so that was also something. It could work. Thirty-two GAC could last her until she found a target to turn in. It had to. There was no other choice  _but_ for it to last her until then.

Zethrid huffed a sharp sigh through her nose, and thumped her head back against the headrest again.

Thirty-two GAC, and five phoebs without a bounty.  _Five phoebs._ It was ridiculous. It was infuriating. She was  _pissed off,_ that’s what she was. She was supposed to be a great bounty hunter—one of the best! But how could she be the best if she went five phoebs without anything to show for it? She hadn’t seen a single wanted person since she’d turned over the last idiot that had pissed off the Empire, and even that hadn’t been anyone impressive. Just some sap who had the misfortune of ruining Quartermaster Janka’s personal ship in a hit-and-run.

Zethrid snorted. Well, that wouldn’t be happening again, at least. She didn’t know what the Empire planned to do to him, but she had a strong feeling he’d never be able to fly any kind of ship again, much less one big enough to sideswipe anything flown by Janka.

She let her hand fall against the steering shaft of her fighter.

It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t a glorious job, what she did, however much she wanted it to be, and she knew that. For some, it was. There were some—there were bounty hunters who were legends, whose names were feared across entire galaxies. Hunters like Esgar the Beast, or Savage Sinel. Just  _hearing_ those names could send even innocent people running for their lives. They were infamous in the Empire, and Zethrid wouldn’t have been surprised if terror for them spread even beyond the Empire’s borders. They were no doubt richer beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, and had enough clout with their names alone that they never had to fear for anything. There was no proof to back it, but Zethrid would have bet half her remaining GAC that even Emperor Zarkon wouldn’t try anything with either one of them. She would have bet all of it that Commander Sendak wouldn’t.

So for some, bounty hunting was glorious. But for her?

It wasn’t that she hated it. She didn’t.  _This_ part of it she wasn’t wild about: dry spells when she found nothing and no one that she could turn in for cash weren’t fun. But there were parts of it that were. Zethrid liked the chase. She liked it when her targets put up a fight, too. Some of them were pretty good at it, and it was only because Zethrid was  _better_ at it that she succeeded. It was fun, anyway, when it got a little rough, when it was a challenge. And it made that sweet, sweet GAC she was given as reward feel all the sweeter, because she had earned it.

But it wasn’t about that, really. Well, it partially was; she needed money to survive. But it was also . . . well,  _that_. Survival. This was what she did to survive. People like Esgar the Beast or Savage Sinel—legends that they were, they hunted because they chose to. They could have done  _anything_ with their lives, and they  _chose_ to be bounty hunters. And Zethrid—well, she chose it, too, she guessed. But a choice was only really a choice if all the available options were equally appealing, and given what she was, well . . .

She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Her options were pretty damn limited.

It wasn’t like being a bounty hunter really gave her any clout in the Empire at all. They didn’t respect her. Even when she  _did_ bring in someone that would have sent “pure” bounty hunters scrounging for excuses as to why they couldn’t collect the bounty themselves, the most she ever got was a “you’re pretty good, for a half-breed” from the payroll employees when she picked up her bounty. That’s all they ever saw—that’s all they ever  _would_ see, unless she managed to pull off a miracle, and who knew if even that would be enough. Esgar and Sinel had the advantage of being “pure” (and gods, how she hated that word); that let them be judged on their work alone. But Zethrid? Most would say she was lucky the Empire let her work as a bounty hunter at all. They could have just shipped her off to Revender instead. Most would say that it was a miracle they hadn’t already.

Zethrid snorted. Yeah, a miracle. Miracle her ass. It was her hard work collecting bounties that kept her off that hellscape. She was useful as a bounty hunter—just useful enough to avoid the fate that befell so many like her. And if being useful as a bounty hunter meant that she stayed off that godforsaken planet, then that was what she’d do. She would do what she had to do to survive.

She gripped the steering shaft with both hands, and squeezed it.

Doing what she had to do to survive meant doing what she had to do to get money. She couldn’t make a good target appear out of thin air, but there was still one more place she could hit up. There was one target she knew . . . she wouldn’t turn him in. She could— _should,_ even, given that he’d been wanted by the Empire for decaphoebs now. He was a manager at some cheap food joint across the galaxy. But he was a—well, a wimp. Total wuss. She had found him about four decaphoebs ago, right after she started hunting, and he’d quailed the second she’d cornered him, whimpering and wringing his hands as he babbled about his wife and newborn twins, and on and on. He was a complete wuss, with an equally as wimpy family. And he was willing to do  _anything_ to stay with them, instead of being dragged off to the Empire to face punishment for his crimes (which were something minor, Zethrid thought, but it had been so long she couldn’t remember the exact charges). That made him useful, and that was really all it was. So long as he was terrified of being turned in, he’d pony up GAC directly into her pocket. She was still collecting a bounty on him, in a way. It was just an informal bounty, and one that would never run dry. The  _actual_ bounty for turning him over likely would have been a lot more, but it was also a one-time payment. This was smarter. It was strategic. And it had nothing to do with his dumb wife, or dumb kids, or dumb sob story with his dumb yupper puppy eyes. It had nothing to do with any of that.

Zethrid shifted out of neutral, and spun her fighter around.

The sooner she got there, the better.

The cheap food joint where her sapient ATM worked was never very busy. Zethrid didn’t really know how it managed to stay in business. It was styled after some restaurant from some planet called Earth, and the food it sold was . . . not bad, actually. Zethrid liked one of the sandwiches they sold there—something called a burger that had something else called bacon on it. It was pretty decent. But the restaurant itself wasn’t even on properly on a planet; it was a tiny space station situated just  _off_ planet Itryix, which—what, did they think they were like the mall that had replaced the swap moon? Did they think they had nearly the same kind of status as the mall? The mall could exist without being on a planet because it made enough GAC to do so. There was no way this tiny little WcGoofy’s could do the same.

But it did. When Zethrid arrived, there the WcGoofy’s stood, as in-business as ever. She swung her fighter around and parked it in one of the ship-cradles out front. Of course, most of them were empty. There was only one other occupied ship-cradle, and when Zethrid gave the transport ship parked there a once-over, she snorted.

With a ship that out-of-date, no  _wonder_ whoever-it-was had chosen to eat at the WcGoofy’s. Price-wise, they probably didn’t have many other options.

She paused, and scowled as she felt an unpleasant sinking in her gut.

Then again, neither did she.

The WcGoofy’s was small, and the moment Zethrid pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby, she was assaulted with the smell of grease, meat, and various condiments. Despite how strongly the place smelled of food, it wasn’t dirty. Her boots squeaked a bit on the recently mopped tile floor, and the tables (which lined the perimeter near the windows, leaving the main floor of the lobby open so customers could approach the counter freely) all looked pretty clean, too. There were two cashiers behind the counter, and four others standing in the lobby: a chick with orange skin and a long, multi-colored appendage dangling from her head leaning against the counter; a guy with shoulder-length white hair tied in a half-ponytail standing a couple paces behind her, staring up at the menu; a chick with blue skin and short hair standing near him, but looking over at the soft drink fountain on the left side of the lobby; and a short guy with dark hair over at the soft drink fountain, pouring himself a drink. Even without the presence of a single ship outside, one glance was all Zethrid needed to know the four of them were together. They were all wearing the same uniform, for one thing: armor that was a mix of dark grey and slate blue, with royal blue and orange accents. And for another, all four of them were only  _part_ -galra.

“Hi, welcome to WcGoofy’s! How may I help you?” one of the cashiers behind the counter called, upon finally spotting Zethrid. All four of the strangers in the lobby glanced at her as she strode up to the counter, but she ignored them. Whoever they were, she was here on business. And if they interfered with that business, well . . . that would be unfortunate, but only for them.

“I’m here to see Olliges,” Zethrid said, and she flashed a grin that showed her teeth as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Send him out.”

The cashier stared at her for a second, uncomprehending, before her eyes widened as her brain finally caught up.

“Oh, um—of course!” she stammered. “Right away, just a moment.”

“Thanks,” Zethrid said.

The cashier turned on her heel and shot her coworker an alarmed look, but when he didn’t return it (save for raising his eyebrows, which changed his expression from “dead inside” to merely “dying”), she quickly charged around the menu wall to head toward the back.

For a tick or two, silence reigned in the WcGoofy’s lobby save for the sound of a few drops of liquid falling to the catch tray at the bottom of the soft drink fountain. But when it became apparent that nothing else interesting was going to happen, everyone returned to what they were doing before: the white-haired guy continued to examine the menu, the dark-haired guy started messing with the lids and straws over by the soft drink fountain, and the orange chick turned back to the remaining casher to resume whatever conversation she had been having with him before. Zethrid watched them surreptitiously over her shoulder while she waited for the cashier she had spoken with to drag Olliges out from the hidey-hole he called an office; it wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

“So like I was saying,” the orange chick said, and gestured with the hand that wasn’t bracing her against the counter, “if you put all the drinks in one cup, it’s like you’re getting ten drinks at once. You get to drink all of them even though you only paid for one.”

The cashier sighed. The little spark of life that had lit his face when his cashier shot him a panicked glance had left it. “But it’s still only one drink,” he said, and though his tone sounded pretty defeated to Zethrid, the orange chick heaved an exaggerated sigh and hung her head as though he was putting up a difficult fight. “It’s just got a bunch of different flavors mixed in.”

“ _No_ ,” the orange chick said, “you’re not getting it. Here, let me explain again.”

Whatever the orange chick’s explanation was for why a bunch of different soft drinks poured into one cup equaled ten different drinks instead of one super disgusting one, Zethrid didn’t care. She switched her attention to the others instead, and not a tick too soon; as she glanced at them over her shoulder, the dark-haired guy walked over from the soft drink fountain instead, rejoining the blue chick and white-haired guy in the middle of the lobby.

“What’d you get?” the blue chick asked him.

“Some kind of orange drink,” the dark-haired guy said, looking at the cup in his hands instead of her. He moved the straw up and down. “The color, not the flavor. I don’t know what the flavor is.” He took a sip, and afterward sucked on his lips for a tick before he said, “It’s kind of tangy? And fizzy. It fizzed when I poured it. Wanna try?”

The blue chick shrugged, but leaned over to take a sip from his straw.

The white-haired guy was still staring at the menu. His elbow was cradled in one hand, his fingers curled against his chin, and he tilted his head (squinting a little) as he asked, “What do you suppose makes the meal happy?”

“What?” the dark-haired guy said, as both he and the blue chick looked to the guy with white hair.

The white-haired guy pointed at the menu. “It’s called a Happy Meal. So, what is it that makes the meal happy?”

The dark-haired guy and blue chick exchanged bewildered glances, before they both looked back at the white-haired guy, frowning.

“Maybe it just likes that it exists?” the dark-haired guy suggested.

“I’m more concerned with how a meal can have feelings,” the blue chick said.

“Most meals have feelings at some point,” the white-haired guy said.

“Not after they’re on your plate,” the blue chick replied, and the white-haired guy nodded his head in her direction after considering for a moment, as if to give her the point.

Zethrid might have pointed out that it wasn’t the meal itself that was happy (not that she cared, or even really  _wanted_ to participate—what the hell kind of discussion even  _was_ that?), but at that moment Olliges finally emerged from around the menu wall, the cashier from earlier walking just in front of him. The moment Olliges’ eyes (all six of them) fell on her, he noticeably paled. A thin sheen of sweat broke out over his grey-green skin, and though he smiled, he wrung his fingers together in front of him, the three eyes on either side of his head scanning the lobby as if looking for an exit.

Zethrid resisted the urge to snort. Well, at least he hadn’t changed.

“Zethrid!” Olliges said, and though she was sure he was probably trying to sound excited to see her, the high-pitched squeak in his voice made him sound instead like a frightened rat. “How—how—what . . . what brings you by?”

Zethrid glanced over at the four in the lobby; of them, only the white-haired guy was still looking up at the menu, as if he hadn’t heard or noticed Olliges at all. The orange chick, the blue chick, and the dark-haired guy, meanwhile, were all looking at her.

She turned back to Olliges.

“Come around this way,” she said, and motioned for him to follow her to the end of the counter.

Looking as though he’d rather swallow oil that had been lit on fire, Olliges did as she ordered, walking down to meet her at the opposite end of the counter. When they reached it, Zethrid reached over and opened the little swing door that allowed employees to step out from behind the counter. For a tick, Olliges hesitated. But after she pulled her lips back  _just enough_ from her teeth so he could see them, his shoulders sagged and he stepped out as she requested.

“So,” Olliges said, and though he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, it was still squeaking. “What, ah—”

“You know what,” Zethrid said, and mindful of the others in the lobby, she lowered her voice as well. “You’ve got money, and I want it. It’s mine. Four hundred GAC, here and now.”

“F-Four hundred?” Olliges said, and he tugged at the collar of his button-up shirt. “I—that’s—it seems only just yesterday you were here—”

“I haven’t been here for six phoebs,” Zethrid said, annoyed.

“And—And, well, you know times are a bit tight right now, what with the—the new tax laws, you know—”

“I don’t want your excuses. I want my money,” Zethrid snapped, and Olliges flinched. “Or are you finally going to make me do this the hard way? I’m sure I can get a whole lot more than just four hundred GAC for turning you in.”

“I . . . my family—my wife and my kids, they—you know they need me—”

“Whatever use they have for you, I’m sure it’s minimal. And I’m also sure it won’t matter if I round them up, too.”

Olliges’ eyes, all six of them, widened. “What? But they—they haven’t done anything wrong! Issthle and Zonni are just children—”

“Do you really think the Empire cares about that?” Zethrid asked, and whatever color had been left in Olliges’ cheeks left it. “I’m sure there’s some crime they could find to pin on your wife, and it’s not like they care about a couple of brats. They’ll chuck them in a labor field somewhere and call it a day.” Zethrid paused to let this sink in, and then said, “Unless you want to save all of us the trouble, and just pay me what you o— _ohhh_ , what the fu—?!”

Zethrid couldn’t stop her voice from breaking off in a yelp as something ice cold splashed down the back of her armor, poured straight into the little gap between her collar and her neck. She whipped around, one hand already reaching for her gun, in time to see the dark-haired guy dropping from his tip-toes to stand with both feet firm on the ground again. In one hand, he held the lid to his cup, the straw still poking through it. In the other, stretched high above his head—high enough to reach the collar of her armor—he held the cup itself, now empty, before he brought it back down to a comfortable level.

Zethrid stared at him, wide-eyed, her mouth open. Words, or a response of any kind, completely  _failed_ her as she stared at him.

And he stared right back. He stared her dead in the eye. He stared her dead in the eye, and in a voice devoid of any remorse, or contrition, or even fear—in a completely flat voice, he said, “Oops.”

_Oops._

“Oops?” Zethrid repeated. The dark-haired guy didn’t break eye contact, and she could feel his soft drink plastering her undershirt against her skin. “ _Oops_?” His eyes were  _boring_ into hers without a single shred of guilt, and Zethrid felt her blood starting to pump hard and fast through her veins. She curled her fingers into fists. “You little—!”

She swung, but while the dark-haired guy was little ( _shrimpy_ , even, he had to look  _up_ to meet her eyes), he wasn’t slow. He stepped to the side and grabbed her arm in the same motion, and used her own momentum against her to shove her toward the tables by the window. Zethrid caught the edge of a table with both hands, but the impact still slammed it into the wall hard enough to make the window shake.

But while she had been thrown into the tables, Zethrid was far from through. Once again she reached for her gun, and this time she pulled it from its holster as she whipped back around to face the dark-haired guy. She swiped the safety off and shifted the power to a medium setting, but just as she aimed the barrel at his face, another blast fired through the lobby and a searing heat blazed across her wrist. Zethrid hissed as the muscles in her hand spasmed and dropped her gun to her floor, and she grasped her new wound with her other hand as she looked to see who shot her.

It was the blue chick. She had drawn a gun of her own, and now had it pointed at Zethrid. The white-haired guy was paying attention now, too, his hand on the hilt of a sword strapped to his waist. And in the time it had taken for Zethrid’s gun to hit the floor, the dark-haired guy had stepped closer to his companions, his hand on the hilt of his own sword, similarly strapped to his waist.

“Hmph. Not bad,” Zethrid muttered. She massaged the burn on her wrist. It wasn’t anything too bad; the blue chick didn’t seem to have seen fit to use a higher setting. She’d regret that. “You three work together on this, then?”

The blue chick shrugged. She might have used a low setting, but she had yet to lower her gun. “We improvised.”

Zethrid snorted.

“Um,” the formerly chipper female cashier said, her voice now several octaves higher than it had been previously, “shouldn’t we do something? We . . . it—it’s not safe to have guns out in the lobby. Mr Olliges?”

“Ah, well,” Olliges began. Zethrid glanced over to see that he had retreated back behind the counter (typical), and was mopping the sweat off his brow with a napkin. He glanced to her, and when their eyes met he cringed and looked away again, back at the group of part-galra facing her. “Maybe it’s . . . better not to get involved with these affairs, you know. Let them sort themselves out.”

In other words, he was hoping that some combination of the dark-haired guy, the white-haired guy, and the blue chick would take Zethrid out for him. Zethrid bit back a growl of disgust. She had always known Olliges was a coward, and usually, his cowardice worked in her favor, but this was a new low, even for him.

“What? But . . .” The female cashier turned to the male cashier, whose thousand-yard stare had not left him despite what had just happened. “Rugar, don’t you think—this is crazy, right? It’s not okay, right?”

The male cashier shrugged as he said, “This might as well happen.”

The female cashier’s shoulders slumped, and whatever hope had been in her eyes seemed to go wherever Rugar’s had went decaphoebs ago.

But the desolate state of the cashiers was not Zethrid’s problem. Her problem was the motley crew of part-galra with the old ship and weird debates about whether or not meals had feelings that was standing in the lobby. Now that she had taken a moment to look at them properly, there was something bothering her about them. Something  _nagging_ her, nagging at the back of her mind, and Zethrid  _hated_ that. She hated when she knew something, but couldn’t for the life of her place what it was she knew. They looked . . .  _familiar_ , she thought. Each of them. The blue chick, whose hair was darker than her skin, her hands holding the gun like she had been doing so for most of her life; the dark-haired guy, who was so  _tiny_ and barely even looked galra, but whose grey-purple eyes and innate agility and strength would have made his heritage unmistakable even if the company he kept hadn’t; and the white-haired guy, who stood tall and proud with his shoulders back, his skin purple and his ears pointed, his . . .

Zethrid’s eyes widened.

His . . . !

“Wait,” she said, and she stood up straighter. The blue chick’s eyes narrowed, and the dark-haired guy stepped closer to the white-haired guy—his ( _their_ )  _prince_ —and slid his sword out of its scabbard, just enough to show the blade. “Wait, wait a second. I know you. I  _know_ you. I know  _all_ of you!”

“Do you?” the prince himself asked mildly.

Zethrid chuckled, giddy energy buzzing through her. “You bet I do. You two,” she pointed at the blue chick and dark-haired guy in turn, “are the fugitives from Revender.”

The blue chick and dark-haired guy exchanged a look.

“That feels like an upgrade,” the dark-haired guy said.

The blue chick shrugged. “It’s more polite.”

“ _You_ ,” Zethrid continued, pointing at the prince between them, “are the exiled, disgraced prince—Lotor!”

“Indeed I am,” Lotor said.

“And  _you_ ,” Zethrid said, rounding on the orange chick, but she faltered as their eyes met. “I . . . have no clue who you are.”

“I’m just here for the fries,” the orange chick said, and she flashed a grin as she turned back to the male cashier. “Make ‘em curly.”

“That’ll be six GAC,” the cashier said.

“Seriously?” the orange chick demanded. “Six GAC? It’s one carton of fries!” Seeing that the cashier wasn’t going to budge, but instead just continued staring at her with a vacant expression, the orange chick heaved a sigh and pouted as she began digging her money out of her pockets.

Zethrid ignored her. She was irrelevant. Not completely, maybe—if she had joined  _these_ three, that meant it wouldn’t hurt (and could only help) to turn her in, too. As far as Zethrid knew, there wasn’t a bounty on  _her_ head; she hadn’t done anything wrong. But traveling with Prince Lotor and the Revender runaways made her guilty by association, and in any case, she was part-galra. That alone meant that Revender would pay  _something_ for her, no matter how ditzy or useless she was.

But however much Zethrid would get for handing over the orange chick, that was  _nothing_ in comparison for what she would get for Lotor and the other two. She couldn’t help it; she laughed a little again.

The blue chick raised an eyebrow and asked coolly, “Is something about this amusing to you?”

“You have no idea,” Zethrid replied, and she flashed her teeth in a wide smile. She couldn’t have stopped smiling even if she wanted to. “All this time I’ve been searching for a good target, and here you three are. The universe dropped you right in my lap. And in the lobby of a WcGoofy’s, of all places.” She paused, and then couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What  _are_ you doing here, anyway? Wouldn’t think a WcGoofy’s would appeal to a palate like yours,  _Your Highness._ ”

Lotor shrugged. “It was Ezor’s suggestion, and I’m not opposed to trying new things. You’ll never learn if you’re afraid to experiment.”

“Plus, it’s cheap,” the dark-haired guy said.

“Affordable,” the blue chick corrected. Lotor nodded, and gestured to them both to show his agreement.

“And good!” the orange chick said, indignant. Judging from her reaction, and the fact that those from Revender didn’t get real names, Zethrid guessed she had to be Ezor. Zethrid glanced over to see that the female cashier and Olliges were no longer behind the counter. The female cashier was likely fetching the Ezor’s fries; Olliges was probably hiding.

“It’s a grease trap,” Zethrid replied. Ezor’s mouth dropped open in further indignation as the male cashier shrugged in agreement, but Zethrid didn’t give her the chance to respond as she said, “And it also doesn’t matter. I don’t care. You three,” she nodded toward Lotor and the two fugitives on either side of him, “are coming with me.”

“Is that so?” Lotor asked. He both looked and sounded thoroughly unconcerned. If she hadn’t had the promise of a million GAC in her near future, she would have felt offended.

The dark-haired guy didn’t sound nearly as friendly as he demanded, “How do you figure?”

“How do I figure? Do you know what your heads are worth? And do you know who Iam?” Zethrid took a step forward, and didn’t miss how the blue chick slightly raised the intensity setting on her gun. “You three are three of the most, if not  _the_ most, wanted criminals in the Empire. This one,” she nodded toward Lotor, “broke the terms of his exile with that little  _stunt_ he pulled on Revender, and as for you two?” She chuckled and shook her head. “The Empire wants you three bad.  _Real_ bad. Bad to the tune of one  _million_ GAC to whoever manages to turn all three of you in.” Zethrid bared her teeth in a grin. “And that person? Is gonna be  _me_.”

“Is it now?” Lotor asked, and before Zethrid could answer, added, “That’s a rather bold assumption considering the state you’re in.”

Zethrid narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He means it’s big talk coming from someone who had an orange drink poured down the back of her armor two ticks before she was thrown into a table,” the dark-haired guy said.

If Lotor’s cryptic comment before hadn’t done it,  _that_ little comment definitely wiped the smile from Zethrid’s face. She shot the dark-haired guy a glare. “You caught me off-guard. It won’t happen again. Now, you can either make this easy, or you can make it fun. Which is it gonna be?”

Lotor, the blue chick, and the dark-haired guy all exchanged a look—or several looks, it seemed, from the way they glanced between each other, eyebrows raised at different points and little nods exchanged. Zethrid clenched her jaw. She wasn’t stupid. They were planning something. In the span of two ticks and no actual words exchanged, they were figuring out a strategy. And while she could understand enough to tell that, she couldn’t understand enough to know just what their decision would be until they decided to share it with her.

She  _hated_ that.

But it didn’t take long. A couple ticks was all they spared. As one they looked back over at her, and Zethrid tensed as the dark-haired guy flashed a smirk.

“Let’s have some fun,” he said.

The words were barely out of his mouth before he launched himself at her, and though Zethrid dove forward to catch his face on her fist, she missed by virtue of him throwing himself to the floor. He caught himself on his hands and swung his legs around, and by the time Zethrid registered that he wasn’t aiming for  _her_ , but rather for the gun she had dropped earlier, it was too late: his kick sent it skittering across the floor, out of her reach.

“Damn it!” Zethrid swore.

The dark-haired twerp didn’t waste any time; his momentum wasn’t slowed at all by his kick, and he completed his spin by hopping back on his feet again. And the tick  _he_ had moved, the others had as well; Lotor had made for the door, and the moment the dark-haired guy was back on his feet, he had taken off after. The blue chick, meanwhile, had darted across the lobby to grab the appendage that dangled from Ezor’s head, and used it to yank her close enough so that she could throw an arm around her neck and drag her bodily from the counter.

“Acxa!” Ezor cried, and even as the blue chick dragged her toward the door she reached back toward the counter, where her bag of curly fries—brought out two ticks too late—now sat in the hands of the alarmed female cashier. “ _My fries_!”

But the blue chick didn’t hesitate, instead charging through the door with Ezor in her grasp. And for her part, Zethrid didn’t hesitate, either.

She had scrambled after her gun the tick that the dark-haired guy sent it skidding under one of the far tables, and the second it was back in her hands, she turned and fired at the door. She almost had them; the blast crashed into the doorframe just above Ezor’s reaching arms. Had she had a second longer to aim, had she aimed  _just a little lower_ , she might’ve taken off Ezor’s hand, and  _that_ would have forced them to stop. But she didn’t; she  _almost_ had them, but  _almost_ only counted in explosions. She gritted her teeth, a growl in her throat, and tore after them.

She burst through the doors just in time to see them jumping into the worn-down carrier they apparently felt passed as a good ship, the dark-haired twerp jumping into the cockpit. He had the engine roaring even before the blue chick shoved Ezor inside the ship, and the tick the doors slammed shut behind them, he started lifting the ship out of the cradle.

Damn it, damn him,  _damn them_!

Yet as furious as she was for the fact they were getting a head start, Zethrid couldn’t keep a wicked smile off her face as she tore across the lot to her own ship and leaped into the cockpit. They had chosen to do things fun way; the dark-haired guy, cocky little twerp he was, had even  _agreed_ that it was going to be fun. And it was—it  _was_ going to be fun.  _For her_. For while they had an old transport ship that wasn’t meant for much more than carrying cargo across the galaxy,  _Zethrid_ had a fighter that . . . wasn’t exactly  _new_ , but wasn’t  _old_ , either. She had her engine blazing and the gear shifted from park to fly even before she shut the door. And while her targets had a head start on her, that was  _nothing_ considering she knew for a  _fact_ that her ship could outfly theirs.

The twerp had slammed their ship back and up in a motion that was far smoother than Zethrid would have thought a transport ship that old and bulky looking was capable of. Zethrid, on the other hand, lifted her ship from the cradle before she spun it around in a tight half-circle and took off after. It didn’t take her very long to catch up; the transport ship that Lotor and his motley crew of misfits had was slower than it looked, and Zethrid almost felt disappointed as she closed in and readied her cannon.

Almost.

She squared up right behind their ship, not twenty feet back, before she fired. Her cannon blast sliced through the stardust between them, streaking like a white-hot bullet toward their ship’s engine—

And in a move smooth enough to make Zethrid’s jaw drop, the transport ship swung to the side. Her shot sailed harmlessly past, through space. She missed. She had  _missed_. She wasn’t twenty feet back and—

Zethrid narrowed her eyes. No. She hadn’t  _missed_. That guy, that—that dark-haired, smart-mouthed, brash little  _twerp_ had  _dodged._

She gripped the steering shaft of her ship even tighter, and bared her teeth in a grin.

She had given him the option of doing this the fun way. Well, then:  _game on._

She pulled back, just enough to make him think she was having second thoughts, before she fired again. Once again, he dodged; he pulled their transport ship up at an angle, and just as Zethrid was preparing to fire again (she’d take out the ship itself at this rate, rather than just one of the engines, but she didn’t  _care_ so long as the ship went down and she got what she wanted, even if they  _were_ in the middle of space at the moment without any terrain in sight), he used the momentum of his dodge to turn the transport ship around to face her. She only had about a tick to appreciate it, but appreciate it she did. The transport ship was big, bulky, and old; the fact that he flew it with something akin to grace (and  _definite_ speed) was impressive, much as she hated to admit it.

But however much she hated to admit that it was impressive, what she hated even more as the cannon blast he sent her way.

Zethrid jammed down on her steering shaft, and the blast sailed above her. So, too, did the transport ship; putting on more speed than it had demonstrated yet, the transport ship streaked right over her head, and Zethrid had to apply a bit more pressure to her thrusters so she could shoot forward before whipping around herself to tear off after them

And that . . . that was when she started to get pissed off.

The hunt was fun. The chase was fun. Zethrid was the type who liked to play with her food. Maybe it made her something of a brute—whatever. She got a rush from adrenaline and she liked hard-earned victories. If that made people see her as a brute, so be it. The way she saw it, she was a hunter, and hunters had a right to play with their prey. That was the way the universe worked. It was part of the circle of life.

But while the transport ship had shot over her with far more speed than it had thus far demonstrated—while it  _quickly_ put distance between them, and  _too much_ to be  _reasonable_ considering how slow it had seemed before—when Zethrid tore after it again, she once again caught up relatively easily. It was something she would have attributed to her own fighter, but she wasn’t stupid; she could tell by the engine propulsion that the transport ship had slowed. He had slowed down. He was waiting for her, luring her.

 _Toying_ with her.

She wanted to ruin their ship so she could drag them onboard hers to take them back to the Empire, but when she fired at their transport ship this time, it was as much out of personal malice as it was necessity. Once again, he managed to swing out of the way; but this time, instead of turning to fire back at her, he pushed the transport ship to top speed and zipped away.

Zethrid glared after.

If that was the way he wanted to play, so be it.

She gave chase, but didn’t fire again. That wouldn’t do her any good. Instead, she herded him toward an upcoming asteroid field, figuring that if nothing else, the asteroids could do her work for her. There was no way a big, bulky transport ship would be able to maneuver through densely packed rock, and at least not as well as her fighter could. The asteroid field would ruin them for sure. Halfway decent pilot though the twerp seemed to be, there was no way he would be able to handle this.

Once again, she was proven wrong.

He deftly flew the transport ship down and around the asteroids. It was ridiculous; it was impressive and infuriating all at once. Zethrid followed at a small distance, her attention cut in half as she worked at avoiding the asteroids herself, but though it defied every bit of logic Zethrid had ever known, the dark-haired twerp didn’t have any trouble navigating the asteroid field at all. He made it look  _easy_. He dipped the transport ship beneath one asteroid and came out sailing overhead another, and briefly turned the ship on its side as he coasted between two others. Zethrid threaded her own path through the belt, her mouth open and her hands gripping the steering shaft of her ship so tightly her knuckles ached. It was ridiculous, it was crazy, it was—it made  _no sense_ , how he could fly like that. How  _anyone_ could navigate a ship like  _that_ through an asteroid field like  _this_.

But he could. He did. He emerged on the other side of the asteroid field by once again dipping beneath a massive hunk of rock, and as Zethrid followed (shooting overhead the asteroid he’d chosen to fly beneath), she shook her head and huffed a sharp sigh.

She hated to admit it, and she would never—not even under threat of long, torturous death—say it to his face, but for a cocky, smart-mouthed, aggravating little twerp, he could damn well  _fly._

But as much as she was sure, now, that he had a legitimate level of skill, she also knew that skill could only take him so far, and luck could only hold out so long. If she forced him back into the asteroid belt, sooner or later he would slip up. And when he did, she would be there to take advantage. She arced her fighter around and prepared her cannon again. The transport ship wasn’t facing her; instead, though it almost seemed as though he had  _waited_ for her to emerge from the asteroid field as well (because he was playing, because he didn’t take her seriously, and oh, she was going to  _enjoy_ shooting him down), he started off in the direction of a nearby moon. He flew slowly for only a moment before he applied a burst of speed that shot the transport ship away from her, and just out of her easy range of fire.

Zethrid bit back a snarl and took off after.

The moon they were heading toward wasn’t anything special. In fact, Zethrid thought it barely counted as a moon. It was the only moon of a dwarf planet that had long since been uninhabited; Zethrid couldn’t remember the names of either the moon or the planet, but although the planet still had some non-sapient life on it, it mostly existed as an empty shell—a reminder of what had once been, decaphoebs and decaphoebs ago, back when it had managed to sustain life.

But now it was nothing. It was just an empty shell, like so many other places and people in the universe. If the moon were destroyed, it wouldn’t matter. Even if it messed up the ecosystem of the planet, it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing really alive there, anyway.

She wondered, as she watched the transport ship dive sharply toward the moon’s surface, if that was why they had chosen it.

But it didn’t matter. Zethrid didn’t care if she destroyed the moon or not, but she  _did_ care about destroying  _them_. Their ship was garbage, and the sooner she did away with it, the better. But the Empire didn’t pay as much for corpses as they did for fugitives they could make examples out of, and as such she needed her targets alive, whatever her temper had almost made her do earlier. Zethrid followed the transport ship to the moon, but hung back once she was within comfortable landing distance and the transport ship pulled in for a landing. She could shoot them from above and take out the engines on their ship. They’d be sitting moaks, ripe for capture and more money than she had ever seen in her life. She smiled as she adjusted her cannons to fire on a lower setting, and locked her aim on the engines. All it would take was one clear shot—

The doors to the transport ship slid open.

The hum of Zethrid’s figher’s cannons grew noticeably louder as Lotor, the blue chick, and the dark-haired twerp hopped out of the transport ship. Zethrid’s eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat. Even on the lowest setting, her three targets—her tickets to a better, more rewarding life—were too close to the transport ship to survive a blast like that. Or, maybe they’d survive—maybe they were tougher than they looked—but they’d need medical attention she was in no way equipped to give. She stared down at them as they looked up at her, and just as her cannons fired, she yanked her ship up so that the cannon blast sailed high over their heads, easily missing them and blazing into space too far for her eyes to follow.

Gods  _damn_ them.

They had planned this. There was no way they hadn’t planned this. It was intentional. They  _knew_ she wouldn’t shoot to kill, or at least had banked on that, and they were right. No doubt they were feeling proud of themselves—smug. They thought they had outsmarted her. They thought they had won.

She clenched her jaw hard enough to grind her teeth together.

She’d make them feel twice as sorry for every ounce of pride they had the nerve to stand there basking in.

She flew her ship in a wide circle around the perimeter of their chosen landing spot before she landed a few feet away. Unlike Lotor, the dark-haired twerp, and the blue chick, she didn’t exit immediately. Instead, she took a moment to study them. Lotor, the twerp, and the blue chick were the only ones who had exited. The door had closed behind them, and the three of them now walked around to stand in front of their ship, facing her, Lotor in the middle. Each of them wore a helmet now, to allow them to breathe (and Zethrid, realizing that was probably a good idea, donned her own), and while Lotor and the dark-haired twerp merely had their hands on the hilts of their swords, the blue chick had her gun drawn and at her side.

But still, it was just the three of them. Ezor was nowhere in sight. Zethrid considered the implications of this for only a moment before she snorted. It was no wonder she wasn’t in sight; Zethrid didn’t have to think very hard to guess why that was. With the way Ezor had acted back at the WcGoofy’s, it was doubtful she was very much use in a fight. She would be more of a liability than anything. Zethrid couldn’t figure out why Lotor had allowed her to come along at all.

But whatever his reasoning for allowing Ezor along, it didn’t matter. If she was sitting in the transport ship like a good little ditz, that just made things easier. Zethrid could get her after she had finished dealing with the other three.

Zethrid still had the handgun she had used back at the WcGoofy’s strapped to her belt, but after a moment of consideration, she reached under the passenger seat and brought out the larger, military-grade blaster she used as well. It was large enough to require most people to use two hands to fire it, but Zethrid had always managed with just one—and really, “managed” was selling things short. Zethrid had never lost a target that she hunted using this particular gun, and after she verified that it was fully charged and raring to go, she felt sure that she wasn’t about to start now. Satisfied with her arsenal, Zethrid shoved open the door to her fighter, and stepped out to face her targets.

The tick Zethrid emerged, the blue chick raised her gun. Instinctively, Zethrid’s arm twitched to raise her own, but she resisted the impulse. She was a quick draw, and confidence was unnerving. If she raised her weapon, it would make her seem defensive, like she considered the blue chick to be a threat. If she didn’t, they’d have to wonder  _why_ she didn’t. That would throw them off, and that was how she would win.

So instead, she strode to stand in front of her ship, just as they had theirs, her gun at her side. The blue chick kept her gun aimed at Zethrid’s chest, while the dark-haired twerp’s eyes darted to her firearm. Lotor, on the other hand, met her eyes, and a smirk graced his lips.

“Thank you for coming to meet us here,” he said. “I believe formal introductions are in order, before anything else. We didn’t have much of a chance to introduce ourselves back at the restaurant.”

Zethrid snorted. “It’s not necessary. I know all I need to know about you. Thought I made that clear enough already.”

Lotor’s smirk didn’t fade. “If you truly knew what you needed to know about me, you wouldn’t feel that way.”

Zethrid stared at him for what felt like a long moment. There was something to what he said—he  _meant_ something by it, and she got the feeling that she didn’t like whatever it was. But no matter how hard she tried to unpack it, she couldn’t, and so after a few ticks of silence she demanded, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I am Prince Lotor,” he said, ignoring her, and Zethrid rolled her eyes. She knew that already, and he hadn’t answered her question, besides. “And these are my companions, Keith and Acxa.” He gestured to each of them in turn.

“‘Keith and Acxa?’” Zethrid repeated, and when they nodded, she frowned a little. The name “Acxa” made sense, she guessed, given what Ezor had shouted back in the restaurant, but— “Huh. That’s weird. Didn’t expect either of you to have normal names.” She paused, then smirked a little. “Or just names in general, I guess. The hell kind of a name is ‘Keith?’ I thought you were galra.”

The dark-haired twerp—“Keith”—scowled at her. “I am.”

“Then what the hell have you got a weird-ass name like ‘Keith’ for?” Zethrid demanded, and she started to laugh as the aggravation clouding his face grew in intensity. Good; for all he had put her through that day, he deserved it. “Did you come up with it yourself?”

“No,” he snapped, but he sounded strangely defensive for one who hadn’t made up his own stupid name.

“Keith’s perfectly acceptable name aside,” Lotor said, “we’ve introduced ourselves to you. It’s only just you return the courtesy in kind.”

Part of Zethrid wanted to refuse out of spite, if nothing else. There was no reason to tell them. They had no right to know, and besides, it wouldn’t change anything. She was dragging them in to get her reward no matter what. But all the same, it  _wouldn’t_ change anything. There was no harm in playing along. And if it made for less whiny targets on her way back to the nearest Empire base, then so be it. She’d play along for the time being.

“My name’s Zethrid,” she said, and she lifted her gun to brace it back against her shoulder, “and I’m a bounty hunter.”

“We figured that much out ourselves,” Keith said, and Zethrid shot him a dirty look.

“Then why’d you ask?”

“It’s polite,” Lotor said, and Zethrid snorted.  _Polite._ She was going to turn him over for five hundred thousand GAC on his head alone, and he was concerned about being  _polite._ “But now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, I believe it’s time for us to get down to business.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Zethrid said as she lifted her gun off her shoulder, the barrel aimed at his face. Acxa’s hold on her own didn’t waver, and Keith once again unsheathed his sword just enough so the blade glinted in the starlight around them. “Get over here and we’ll make this quick and easy.”

Lotor blinked, as if taken aback, and then laughed quietly. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. We brought you here to negotiate.”

“The only one misunderstanding things is  _you_ ,” Zethrid said. “I’m not here to ‘negotiate’ shit. I’m here to send you two,” she pointed her gun at Acxa and Keith in turn, “back to the hellhole you crawled out of, and I’m dragging  _you_ ,” she pointed her gun at Lotor again, “back to Zarkon. By your hair, if I have to.”

Finally, the smirk was wiped from Lotor’s face. His shoulders went rigid, his lips pressed into a tight frown, his eyes narrowed. Acxa’s finger adjusted the intensity setting on her gun, and on Lotor’s other side, Keith’s sword cleared its scabbard with a loud, clear ring. In the same moment, Zethrid heard a light  _thud_ from just behind her, but when she looked over her shoulder, she saw nothing but her own ship. She shook her head, and looked back at her targets.

Sounds always carried weirdly on moons.

“I’d reconsider, if I were you,” Lotor said. His tone had dropped all traces of friendliness. “You aren’t the first bounty hunter to pursue us, and I can assure you that you won’t be the last. It’s in your best interest to hear what we have to say.”

“Yeah. I’m sure,” Zethrid said. “I may not be the first to hunt you, but I can promise I  _will_ be the last, and you know why?” Before he could answer, she said, “Because getting one million GAC as a reward for turning you in is what’s in my best interest, and I plan to pursue that.” She adjusted the intensity of her own gun before she pivoted and took aim at Acxa’s face. “First up—!”

Her voice died in her throat as something—a  _blade_ —was pressed against it.

It wasn’t just that a blade was pressed against her throat. That sensation wasn’t alone. Something—some _one_?—grabbed her from behind, one arm wrapped around her throat in a chokehold while another hand pressed the knife against it. Instinctively, Zethrid shoved back against the weight and jammed her elbow into what felt an awful like lot ribs in an effort to dislodge whatever unseen presence had grabbed her. Her attempt failed; whatever or whoever had grabbed her grunted when she hit them, but they held fast, and her counter cost her; the blade nicked her throat, and Zethrid felt a tiny bead of blood bubble up from the cut.

But though the person who had grabbed her didn’t let go, what they were using to cloak themselves vanished the tick after her elbow connected. Zethrid caught a brief shimmer from the corner of her eye, and when she turned her head to look, she found Ezor’s face only an inch or two from her own. Ezor was wincing a little, no doubt from how Zethrid had hit her, but as their eyes met, she smirked.

“For a great bounty hunter, you’re not very good at paying attention to your surroundings, are you?” Ezor said. “I mean, I know I was cloaked, but still. This was  _way_ too easy.”

“Cloaked?” Zethrid repeated, but her confusion cleared in a snap before Ezor could answer, and she groaned. “Oh, for fu—you’re part-miralean, aren’t you?”

Ezor grinned broadly. “You know it.”

It was obvious. It  _should_ have been obvious, and if Zethrid had  _cared_ more, it  _would_ have been obvious. Ezor looked as galra as Keith did, which was to say, hardly at all. Her skin, scaly as it was, was bright orange, and the long appendage that dangled from her head was practically a hallmark for the miralean people. Zethrid had been so focused on the fact that Ezor was part-galra that she had failed to consider the other parts of Ezor’s heritage. And honestly, it still didn’t really matter, except for the fact that miraleans were known for their natural cloaking abilities, something which Ezor seemed to have inherited.

Ditzy and useless? Zethrid wanted to kick herself. Ezor was part-miralean. She was  _far_ from useless. No  _wonder_ Lotor had her on his team.

But it wasn’t the only assessment or guess that she had, and when she glanced at Ezor’s feet and saw that her newest assumption was correct, she scowled. “Are you standing on my ship?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s not like I have much of a choice,” Ezor said. “You’re kind of a giant, you know that? Seriously, do me a favor and stop growing until I hit my growth spurt at least, thanks.”

Zethrid gritted her teeth. “Get off me, and get off my ship.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Ezor said, and Zethrid growled a little in the back of her throat. It did nothing to shake the smile from Ezor’s face. “I’ve got a job to do, and that requires I stay right here. Ah, ah, ah!” She tightened her grip as Zethrid tried to shove her off again, and  _tsk_ ed as her knife pressed against the cut it had made before. “If you move like that you’re just going to cut yourself again. You don’t want that, do you?”

“ _I’m_ going to cut  _myself_?” Zethrid demanded indignantly. “You’re the one with the knife!”

“And you’re the one moving,  _and_ the one careless enough to get caught in the first place.” Ezor paused, and then her grin widened. “Hey, maybe  _I_ should be the bounty hunter instead. Seems I’m better at it than you.”

Zethrid curled her fingers into fists and breathed deeply through her nose, and prepared herself to take a slit throat if it meant hurling Ezor across the surface of the moon, when Lotor spoke up again.

“That aside for the time being—”

“Forever,” Keith interrupted.

“You can’t be a bounty hunter, Ezor,” Acxa said flatly.

Ezor made a face. “I can be whatever I want to be,  _Acxa_. You’re not the boss of me.”

“That aside,” Lotor said, a little more loudly this time, “I believe it’s time we returned to—or rather,  _began_ —our original discussion.”

The earlier tension had left his shoulders, and as their eyes met, there was a little smirk on his lips once more. Zethrid gripped her gun more tightly. He was feeling smug. Once again, he felt like he  _won_. And the worst part was that she couldn’t even say he was really wrong to feel that way. He hadn’t won, not yet—she would  _never_ quit, no matter  _what_ he had to say—but she couldn’t deny she was at a disadvantage. Moving right now, while Ezor was still at least mostly on her guard, would result in a slit throat. She might survive that, if the cut wasn’t too deep, but it would be distracting enough to allow the others to get the jump on her. And now that she knew that Ezor was part-miralean . . . it wasn’t that she was afraid, because she wasn’t. It was just that fighting those that had the ability to render themselves invisible was a pain in the ass, and Zethrid would admit (grudgingly, and only when forced) that she had yet to win a fight against anyone who could do that. She just didn’t have enough practice.

She hissed a sigh through her teeth, and glared at Lotor.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

If Lotor took offense to her tone, he didn’t show it. Instead, he casually leaned back against his ship (he was so  _relaxed_ , or at least he was  _making_ himself look relaxed, and gods, she wanted to  _throttle_ him), and studied her for a moment before he said, “I would like to make you an offer.”

Of all the things Zethrid expected to hear him say,  _that_ was not one of them. She blinked, and then narrowed her eyes again. “What kind of offer? You can’t pay me enough—there’s no way you can pay me enough. No way you can pay out as much as the Empire given the piece of crap you fly and the cheap grease traps you eat at.”

“ _Hey_!” Ezor said, her voice loud enough to make Zethrid wince. “WcGoofy’s is good!”

“You mind not shouting right in my ear?” Zethrid snapped.

“Our ship outflew yours,” Keith said, before Ezor could reply.

She hated it. She hated every second of it. But she had to say it, because credit due was credit due, and she knew she wasn’t wrong about the ship. “No,  _you_ outflew  _me_. Your ship, piece of crap that it is, had nothing to do with it. That was all you.”

Keith’s eyes widened, and though his mouth opened a little as if he was going to answer, no sound came out. Zethrid smirked a little; if she could get nothing else out of this situation, at least she could get the satisfaction of rendering him speechless.

It didn’t matter, anyway, that Keith had nothing to say. Lotor saved him the trouble. “Zethrid is correct,” he said, and when Keith glanced over at him, added, “You’re an extraordinary pilot.”

Even through the visor of his helmet, Zethrid could see Keith’s cheeks tint a little pink as he looked away. “I’m  _okay_ ,” he said. “I’m no better than you are. Maybe not even as good.”

Lotor smiled. “It isn’t necessary to gauge your skill against mine. My abilities in the cockpit have no bearing on yours, though I’d disagree with your assessment regardless.” He paused, then said, “Take the compliment, Keith. It’s true whether you accept it or not, so you might as well.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Fine, but only if you do, too. You’re just as good of a pilot as me—”

“I won’t deny my skill, but you have a natural gift that I—”

“It’s not a ‘gift,’ it’s—I just  _do_ things—”

“It’s intuition—”

“Could we save this for another time?” Acxa interrupted, raising her voice to speak over the pair of them. Both Lotor and Keith turned to look at her, though Acxa still had her eyes (and her gun—Zethrid would have thought that Acxa would have relaxed, too, seeing how Ezor hadn’t moved) on Zethrid. “We’re in the middle of something here.”

“ _Thank_  you,” Zethrid said, as Keith looked away, his cheeks even darker than before, and Lotor cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter. “Are they always like this?”

Acxa’s shoulders rose and fell in a little sigh, and the look she gave Zethrid read a whole lot like,  _‘you have no idea.’_

“Your assessment that we don’t have money to offer you is correct,” Lotor said, locking eyes with Zethrid once more. As annoying as his little compliment duel with Keith had been, Zethrid smirked a little at how professional he was trying to sound. After how confident he had been, it was nice to see him embarrassed. “And even if we did have a sum comparable to what the Empire can provide, we still wouldn’t offer it. Even if you accepted the payment, there is little doubt you’d return for more in the future. I’ve no interest in being a bounty hunter’s personal bank.”

That was smart, but Zethrid wasn’t about to tell him that. “Okay, then, what? What could you possibly have to offer me that’s worth more than one million GAC?”

Lotor smirked. “Freedom.”

Zethrid snorted an incredulous laugh. “What? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m already free.”

“Are you?”

Lotor’s response was immediate, and that brought Zethrid up short. He walked a few paces closer, and both Keith and Acxa stepped forward as well.

“Let’s take a moment to assess your situation, shall we?” Lotor said. “You aren’t imprisoned, nor are you forced to work in a labor field or live in a slum. You have your own ship, so you’re able to fly where you please. I would wager that you are the one who chose to be a bounty hunter, seeking the riches and fame that such a career promises to give, yet rarely does even to those who have the fortune of being born with the privilege of being full galra.”

“Yeah?” Zethrid snapped. “What’s your point?”

“My point, Zethrid, is that you spend your days moving from place to place because you’re afraid of staying in one place for too long. You’re afraid that if you attract too much attention from Empire soldiers, they’ll suddenly recognize your heritage and take action accordingly. You strive to capture outlaws and fugitives most shy away from not only to collect the bounties you need to eat, but also in a futile bid for security so that you no longer have to worry about your future. And yet, due to the very heritage that has forced you into this position in the first place, you know—whether or not you’ll admit it—that your efforts are in vain. They will never accept you. They will never be satisfied with your efforts. They will never see you as anything more than another shameful mistake marring the Empire’s legacy.”

Zethrid was shaking, enough so that she felt the edge of Ezor’s blade brush against the cut on her throat again. She struggled not to let it show—to control her breathing just enough so that she still  _could_ breathe, without letting onto him just how difficult that was.

“You don’t have any clue what you’re talking about,” she said finally, and she squeezed both her fist and her gun as she heard her voice shake, even if it was only a little. “You don’t know anything about me, or my life, or—or anything! Where the hell do you get—where the hell did you get all that from?”

“Hmm.” Lotor studied her for a moment, then asked, “If that’s the case—that I know nothing about your situation, that is—then tell me something: What do you believe would happen if we did allow you to turn us in for the bounty? Do you earnestly believe the Empire would reward you for your efforts? That they would allow you to take the credit for arresting the most wanted fugitives in the Empire, rather than giving it instead to hunters with far more prestige and clout than you possess?”

“They’d have no choice,” Zethrid said. “I’d be the one doing it—”

“As you yourself pointed out back at the restaurant, the Empire is not in the business of playing fair,” Lotor said, and Zethrid shut her mouth. “Think for a moment, Zethrid. Consider your situation. Consider what and who you are, and what and who the Empire is, and what it is  _they_ value.” He paused for a moment, as if to let his words sink in, before he said quietly, “You seem to know what happened on Revender. You know what it is I attempted, and what the results were. That should tell you all you need to know about how the Empire would react to seeing a part-galra achieve what many full galra have failed to accomplish.”

Zethrid did know. She doubted there was a part-galra in the Empire who didn’t. Word had traveled fast, despite how the Empire soldiers who made sure the story made it off-planet had spread it so they could mock it. Everyone knew what Lotor had done. Breaking the terms of his exile aside, most wondered what it meant for them. Some took heart in it, Zethrid knew. They felt hopeful, thinking that Prince Lotor, son of Zarkon and possible (ha!) heir to the throne, cared for them. But Zethrid saw it for what it was. It was stupid at best, and maybe even cruel at worst. Of course nothing had, or ever would, change. Son of Zarkon or not, Lotor was still only part-galra himself. He was no better than the rest of them, and considering what he had done? Zethrid thought he was maybe even worse.

But whether he was just the same or maybe even worse, he had a point, and she couldn’t deny it. For all she dreamed of  _making_ the Empire recognize her, of taking her one million GAC and all the glory that came with it . . . at the end of the day, the Empire wasn’t interested in recognizing people like her. They never had been, and outside of a miracle (or ten), they never would be. Her shoulders sagged, and she swallowed to try and rid herself of the bitter taste in her mouth.

“For all that talk, I still don’t know what point you’re trying to get at,” she said finally. “Yeah, the Empire can’t stand people like us. We’re dirt on the bottoms of their boots. That’s nothing new. But what have you got to offer me that can change that, huh?”

Lotor smiled. “Revolution.”

“Lotor,” Keith said, a note of warning in his voice.

“Against what?” Zethrid demanded.

“The Empire,” Lotor said.

“ _What_?”

“I am leading a revolution to overthrow the Empire and transform it so that it affords opportunity to all those who live in it, rather than a select few. The Empire can no longer be allowed to stand as it is; things cannot continue as they are. I seek to change it, and I will.” He paused, but only for a beat before he said, “If you’re interested, you’re welcome to join me.”

Keith was staring at Lotor now, rather than Zethrid, a frustrated looking frown on his lips. On Lotor’s other side, Acxa looked like she disapproved just as much.

But Zethrid was torn between amusement and second-hand embarrassment. She stared at Lotor for a moment before she asked, “And how many people have you got in this revolution of yours?”

“At the moment, four, counting myself,” Lotor said. “Though that number will increase to five, should you choose to come along.”

“So it’s the four of you against the Empire?”

“Yes.”

Zethrid barked a laugh. “You’re not just a disgrace, you’re delusional.”

Keith and Acxa both glared at her, but the more surprising reaction (to Zethrid, at least) was Ezor’s. She pressed her knife a little harder against the cut in Zethrid’s throat.

“You know,” she said, and her tone sounded light even as she applied a little more pressure to her blade, “it’s not very smart to say things like that when someone has a knife to your throat.”

“Relax, Ezor,” Lotor said, as Zethrid shot Ezor a dirty look. “It’s no surprise she feels that way. If anything, she’s being pragmatic.”

Ezor frowned, but nonetheless loosened her grip just enough so Zethrid could breathe without making the earlier cut any deeper.

“I don’t blame you for being skeptical,” Lotor continued, looking back to Zethrid. “Our progress has been slow, and it’s likely to remain as such for some time. No revolution worth holding happens overnight. But I assure you that revolution  _is_ on the horizon. We  _will_ succeed. And whether you choose to be part of it or not, you will benefit from our efforts . . . provided you don’t repeat today’s mistake.”

Zethrid furrowed her brow. “Today’s  _mistake_?”

“You chose to come after us,” Lotor said. “I understand why you made the decision you did. You’ve chosen to be a bounty hunter to secure a living, and things clearly haven’t been going well for you as of late—or ever, if what happened at the restaurant earlier is any indication.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zethrid’s stomach churned at the pitying, condescending look Lotor gave her. “Successful bounty hunters don’t perform low-level shakedowns on the managers of fast-food restaurants. That you and he were familiar with one another indicates this is far from the first time you’ve done it. The confidence you have is commendable, Zethrid, but it isn’t difficult to see that you’re struggling. It’s through no fault of your own, I’m sure, but that doesn’t change the reality of it.”

Zethrid ran her tongue along her teeth, and turned her eyes to the sky. “You don’t know anything about my—”

“Regardless, that’s hardly the point,” Lotor went on, and Zethrid glared at him for his interruption. “The point is that you chose to come after us. I’m willing to forgive today, given that your options were limited, and you weren’t quite aware of what you were getting yourself into.”

“I knew gods damn well what I—”

“But my grace will not extend  _beyond_ today. If you choose not to join us, that’s fine; we’ll go our separate ways and likely never cross paths again. But if you choose that option, then I advise you to commit. We do not respond gently to threats.”

Zethrid narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning if you come after us again, we’ll drop you, same as we’ve done to the others,” Acxa said. All this time, and she still hadn’t lowered her gun. “Remember what Lotor said before. You’re not the first bounty hunter to come after us. We know how to defend ourselves, and we will.”

For a moment, all was quiet. Ezor still hadn’t moved from where she was now leaning against Zethrid’s shoulders, her knife grasped in a firm grip. Acxa’s aim was as steady as before, too, and Keith had yet to return his sword to his scabbard. Of them all, only Lotor looked relaxed. Despite the threat he had given—and it  _was_ a threat, Zethrid wasn’t stupid, even if she couldn’t say it was an unreasonable one—he looked perfectly calm as he stood there, watching her. It didn’t—it didn’t make any sense, why he was acting like this. Nothing about him made sense. It didn’t make sense why he would go to a WcGoofy’s, and wonder about the Happy Meals on the menu. It didn’t make sense why he would fly around in a beat-up old transport ship with a ragtag bunch of fugitives and curly fry enthusiasts. And it didn’t make sense why he, knowing what she was and what she wanted, would even  _think_ to offer her a place with him—why he hadn’t just tried to shoot her down to begin with.

Zethrid shifted her weight, and when she realized that she was now staring at the ground rather than at his face, she looked back at him.

“Why’d you bring me out here?” she asked. “Why here? Why not back there in the parking lot?”

“You were rather obvious about seeking a fight,” Lotor said. “Should things have escalated, there’s little doubt that establishment would have been damaged, and the employees there could have been hurt. I wanted to avoid that if possible.”

“Okay, but why not just leave?” Zethrid asked. “Why offer me a spot in your little ‘revolution,’ or whatever you’re calling it?”

“I think you have potential,” Lotor said, and Zethrid snorted.

“Do you now?” she said sarcastically. “Then what was all that about how I’ve been ‘struggling’ you went on before?”

“Simply because you’ve been struggling to make a living for yourself in an Empire that affords you very little opportunity doesn’t mean you don’t have the potential to realize something greater,” Lotor said, and Zethrid blinked. “You may be struggling, but the fact that you’ve managed to survive in this business for this long speaks to your skill and ability. You’re an accomplished pilot, and you clearly take good care of your weapons, armor, and other necessities. We might have caught you by surprise when Keith decided to instigate a fight, for which he is—”

“Not sorry,” Keith said, and Zethrid glared at him.

Lotor’s lips twitched, as if threatening to smile. “—but I’ve no doubt that you could have performed better if you hadn’t been taken by surprise. You could be a valuable asset to our team, Zethrid. I’d like to give you the opportunity to prove as much.”

Zethrid rolled her shoulders as best she could with Ezor draped across them. Her undershirt was still glued to her skin by virtue of the orange soft drink Keith had poured down her armor earlier. “My back is still sticky.”

“You were threatening that guy’s kids,” Keith said. “You deserved it.”

Zethrid rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t actually going to do anything to them, I just needed to scare him—”

“And that’s something you’ll no longer need to do if you decide to come along with us,” Lotor said, cutting off whatever Keith had been about to say in reply.

“And why’s that?” Zethrid said. “You’re as broke as I am. You don’t have any money, either.”

“No, but we do have ways of obtaining it that don’t involve harassing innocent civilians in fast-food restaurants,” Lotor said.

Zethrid raised an eyebrow. “Which are?”

Lotor smirked. “That is something you’ll discover if you decide to join us.”

Zethrid huffed a sigh. As much as she wanted to take his apparent method for money-making and run, she had to respect it was smart of him not to tell her. If she were in his shoes, she wouldn’t share  _her_ secrets, either. “Fine. Then what about this so-called revolution of yours? What are your plans for that?”

Lotor’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m afraid that is something else you’ll discover  _if_ you decide to come with us, and not right away. Apologies, but while I’m willing to offer you a place on our team, given the circumstances in which you’re joining, it will be a while before we trust you with that information.”

“You have to be at least a Level Ten teammate before you unlock our game plan,” Ezor said, and she flashed Zethrid a smirk of her own.

As if the situation couldn’t get more annoying, Ezor had to go and say  _that_.

But it made sense, even if Zethrid didn’t want to concede that point. Much like with whatever Lotor did to make money (however little of it their little team of misfits had), it made sense that he wouldn’t share his plans with her in any way that could potentially screw him over if she decided to leave and run straight to the Empire with his plans. If she were in his shoes, she wouldn’t tell her, either.

But then, if she were in his shoes, she also wouldn’t offer herself a space on the team.

The worst part, she thought, was that the whole thing felt strangely . . . tempting. It was stupid. It was  _beyond_ stupid. Lotor, Keith, and Acxa were wanted fugitives. Anyone who traveled with them was guilty by association. They had nothing but some ostensibly half-baked plan to host a revolution. They had discussions about whether meals had feelings or not. Ezor claimed to only be there for the curly fries. They were fools, idiots— _losers_ in comparison to an Empire which could and would snuff them out without blinking.

And yet, despite all her experience hunting—despite the fact that she had taken down targets much bigger and fearsome than them—they had easily managed to hold their own in the WcGoofy’s lobby. Keith was  _tiny_ , at least compared to her, but he had managed to use that to his advantage to avoid every hit she tried to land on him. Acxa had disarmed her. And though she was supposedly only there for the curly fries, Ezor had yet to remove her knife from Zethrid’s throat. And Lotor . . .

Everyone in the Empire knew what a disappointment—what a  _disgrace_ —he was. The fact that the crown prince was only  _half-_ galra was bad enough in the eyes of most. The fact that he had thus far done  _nothing_ to live up to Zarkon’s legacy was worse. The full-galra who were sympathetic reasoned that maybe his altean heritage had given him brain damage from birth. Those who were less so insisted that he was just an idiot. Zethrid had never really known what to think, except that he wasn’t really worth thinking about. If Lotor being part-galra prevented him from doing anything useful despite the fact that he’d been born with the title of  _prince_ , then all thinking about him would do was piss her off and depress her in equal measure. It was best to just ignore him, unless she could use him to make her own lot in life better.

But she couldn’t. For all these four looked like a bunch of idiots, and as much as it poured salt into her wounded pride to admit it even to herself, they had easily bested her. She didn’t have much of a problem believing they’d do so again if she tried to go after them later. Despite all odds, they were clearly a functioning team. Despite the task set before them, not one of them seemed desperate. They weren’t starving, or scrounging for scraps. The entire universe was against them, but they were managing to make it work.

Together.

“Say I do decide to come with you,” she said finally. “If I change my mind later? What happens then?”

“That is up to you,” Lotor said. “If you ever decide to leave, by all means, you’re free to do so. We’ll part ways and never see each other again. If, however, you decide to leave and then later decide to attack us . . .”

“We won’t hesitate,” Acxa said flatly.

It was reasonable. It made sense. Nothing else did—it was stupid, maybe the stupidest thing she had ever done—but their readiness to take her out if she tried to do the same to them did, at the very least.

Zethrid closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe this was happening. If someone had told her when she woke up that morning that this would be happening, she would have laughed in their face and prepared herself to collect her one million GAC bounty.

 _One million GAC_. It was the dream of all dreams. And yet it was just as out of her reach now as it had been the day before. But whatever choice she made now wouldn’t change that.

She sighed, and opened her eyes to look back at Lotor.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll come along. For now. Call off your brat.”

Lotor smiled broadly, and waved one hand. “Ezor, you heard her.”

At long last Ezor drew back and hopped off the hood of Zethrid’s fighter, and as she did, Keith turned to Lotor. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Quite,” Lotor replied. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. “There’s no guarantee as to her trustworthiness at present, but that’s all the more reason to keep her close by. If nothing else, this will allow us to neutralize any potential threat before it escalates.” He paused, then added, “That aside, we need at least five people for phase one. Now that we have Zethrid, we have that as well.”

Keith considered this for a moment, and then re-sheathed his sword at long last.

Zethrid swiped her hand across the trickle of blood that had seeped down from her throat, and snorted. “You really aren’t as stupid as you first appear.”

Lotor flashed her a smirk, his eyes glinting. “Oh, you’ve no idea what I’m capable of.”

Before Zethrid had a chance to wonder what  _that_ was supposed to mean, Ezor’s chipper voice broke through whatever remained of the tension between them. “Hey, you got any snacks in here? I’m starving.”

Zethrid turned to see that, upon jumping off the hood of her ship, Ezor had looped around to the passenger side door to look inside. Without waiting for permission, she yanked open the door, and Zethrid gawked at her.

“Hey, what the—get out of there!”

“What? I’m hungry!” Ezor said defensively. “It’s not like I had a chance to eat back at WcGoofy’s! I  _would_ have had some delicious curly fries, but  _SOMEBODY_ ,” she glared at Acxa, “dragged me out of there before I could.”

“Did you want to get shot?” Acxa asked flatly, as she returned her gun to its holster.

“It wouldn’t have taken me two ticks to grab my fries, and I could have just cloaked myself!” Ezor waved a hand in Zethrid’s direction. “She can’t shoot what she can’t see!”

“She’s got a point,” Zethrid said, and Acxa rolled her eyes.

“So anyway,” Ezor said, “unless someone wants to fly me back to WcGoofy’s to get my fries, I need some snacks.” She opened the compartment beneath the dashboard and peered in side. “Do you have any chips or something?”

“None for you,” Zethrid said, and Ezor gave her a scandalized look. “And I don’t think we can go back there. Given my little history with Olliges—”

“Are you  _serious_? We’re banned from WcGoofy’s now?” Ezor demanded, and she groaned loudly as she tossed her hands in the air. “What the heck, Zethrid! You haven’t even been part of our team for five doboshes! How have you already got us banned from WcGoofy’s?!”

“You saw what happened back there,” Zethrid said. She couldn’t explain why, but somehow, Ezor’s indignation made  _her_ feel indignant, even if defensively so. “It’s not like this is new information. You  _know_ me and Olliges aren’t pals.”

“But they have some of the best curly fries around!”

“I don’t see how that’s my prob—hey!” Zethrid stepped back as Keith squeezed by her, and grabbed his arm as he reached for the pilot side door. “And what the hell do you think  _you’re_ doing?”

“Checking out your ship,” Keith said. He shrugged her hand off and opened the door, and before she could yank him out again, slid into the cockpit. He was so short that, given the way she had the seat adjusted, he couldn’t comfortably grab the steering shaft. Nonetheless, he scooted forward to sit on the very edge of the seat as he examined the dash. “Whoa, this is cool. Nice nav system—and does this booster do what I think it does?”

“Yeah,” Zethrid said, though she didn’t know what it was he thought the booster did. Keith nodded appreciatively, his fingers skimming over the buttons on the dash as Ezor continued to rifle through the dash compartment. She felt her temper spike. “Look, just because I agreed to work with you doesn’t mean you can just go through my stuff.”

“I think it’s a bit too late for that,” Acxa said dryly, and when Zethrid turned back to Acxa and Lotor, Lotor grinned at her.

“Welcome to the team,” he said.

 


End file.
